


Too Many

by mycrofic (iceprinceofbelair)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Bullying, Gen, Introspection, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Suicide Attempt, Teen Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/pseuds/mycrofic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't know how to cope with the noise in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Many

_"You are a very stupid little boy. And mummy and daddy are very cross."_

_"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"_

Sherlock's vision is blurred. He can't breathe. Maybe he doesn't care.

There's bustling and shouting and something in his mouth and on his chest and hands touching him all over. And then his body jolts upwards and he's left desperate to breathe in and out and in and out.

His body is desperate but his mind craves the sleep and the peace and the quiet. His mind. His mind never stops talking, never shuts up.

There's too much; too many, too many, too many.

Too many.

It makes him dizzy and the teacher keeps sending him to the nurse when he has one of his "dizzy spells" in the middle of lessons. The nurse always tells him not to look for attention just because she can't find a physical ailment. That's because there are none.

It's all in his head.

_"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"_

He can still hear Mycroft repeating his words. Again and again. He doesn't want this. He never wanted this. He wants to go to bed.

He remembers the pills. Too many, too many. And the way they made his tummy ache and grumble in protest because all he wanted to was to just stop. It keeps going. The never ending mantra of thinking and seeing and deducing because he just can't make it stop. Mycroft knows how. Mycroft tries to teach him.

But Sherlock is stupid and it’s well past his bedtime.

_"You're a very stupid little boy. And mummy and daddy are very cross."_

Stupid.

_"You always were so stupid."_

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He's not stupid. He's not stupid and his stupid big brother with his stupid name and his stupid umbrella can't tell him otherwise. Mycroft's the stupid one. Not him. And we won't give him the satisfaction of dying.

Sherlock will live. And he'll do it just to spite him.

Just to spite Mycroft is always reason enough.

He doesn't want to go back to school. Mycroft will make him. Mummy will cry if he doesn't and Daddy will look at him with sad eyes.

He wants Redbeard. Redbeard makes it all better. Redbeard doesn't laugh when Sherlock whispers that he wants to be a pirate and makes up pirate games for them to play together. Redbeard doesn't roll his eyes the way Mycroft does because he's not a stupid big brother.

He's Captain Sherlock's trusty first mate and Sherlock misses him. A ship's not a ship without a Redbeard onboard.

There are still hands on him.

He breathes.

More hands. Beeping and chest compressions and pounding hearts and sweat and light and-

Dark.

When the light comes back, Mycroft is there. He looks different. He doesn't ask why. He already knows why.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Sherlock looks at him blankly. He's all fuzzy round the edges.

And all the thoughts come rushing back. All the cries of "Freak" and the endless wishing and praying and hoping for this stupid ability to leave him. It's like a plague, a demon. He can't purge himself of it because it's what he is. It's who he is. And he's stuck with it forever and ever and ever.

He doesn't want it.

"It hurts, My," he whines and Mycroft knows he isn't talking about his pumped stomach. Sherlock can see the pain in Mycroft's eyes. And Sherlock wonders how many older brothers have to look at their eight year old sibling like this.

Probably not many.

"I know, Sherlock," Mycroft sighs, placing one hand on Sherlock's tender stomach. He rubs soothing circles there like Mummy does when Sherlock has a tummy ache. But he doesn't have a tummy ache. He has a headache. A constant headache.

He lets out one choked sob. "Will I always be this way?"

Mycroft looks stricken. "I'm sorry," he says again.

And Sherlock wishes he hadn't fought so hard.

**Author's Note:**

> I've written the word "stupid" so many times that I can't actually remember what it means or how to pronounce it.


End file.
